Season 2, Letter 13
My storm‑brewed anchor Clem,
Your letter arrived at dawn.
Not in the mailbox — of course not — but on the kitchen table, right beside the bowl of apples I swear I didn’t leave there last night. The Cottage must have delivered it while I slept, because Marmalade was sitting on it like a dragon guarding treasure, tail wrapped neatly around her paws, eyes glowing that molten gold that means she knows something I don’t.
When I touched the parchment, your magic hit me like a warm hand closing around mine. Steady. Grounding. A quiet, stubborn refusal to let me face this alone.
I sat there for a long time, just breathing with it.
And then the wardrobe hummed.
Not loud — not yet — but enough to vibrate the floorboards beneath my feet. Enough to make Marmalade’s ears flatten. Enough to make me whisper your name like it was a spell.
Clem… it’s getting stronger.
And as for your question — “how does he know that???” — please. You know exactly how he knows.
Rowan has that irritating sixth sense about me, like he’s permanently tuned to whatever frequency my magic is vibrating on. I could sneeze in the next room and he’d appear in the doorway with a mug of tea and a look that says he’s already diagnosed the emotional cause.
So of course he noticed Marmalade glued to my chest. Of course he felt the shift in the weave. Of course he asked you instead of me.
He always does that — circles the truth like a wolf who doesn’t want to spook the deer.
Not that I’m the deer. Obviously.
Anyway. He’s worried. Which is annoying, because it makes me worry about him worrying, and I refuse to participate in that spiral.
Beatrice is circling. I can feel it. You were right.
She’s been sniffing around the edges of things she shouldn’t even be able to sense from across the ocean. Yesterday, I found one of her ridiculous silver calling cards slipped under my workshop door — no message, just her name embossed like she expects the wood to bow to her.
The wardrobe hummed louder when I touched it.
I threw it into the fireplace.
The flames turned blue.
I’m not sure what that all means, I’m keeping her far away. As far as magic will allow.
The wardrobe, Clem… it’s not just humming anymore.
Last night, I woke to the sound of something shifting inside it. Not scratching. Not knocking. More like… rearranging itself. Like a house settling after a long winter. The air tasted like old paper and thunderstorms.
I didn’t open it. I swear to you, I didn’t.
But I stood in front of it, barefoot on the cold floor, and I felt something press against the other side of the door. Not a hand. Not a creature. More like a presence leaning close, listening back.
And then — this is the part I haven’t told Rowan — it whispered.
Not words. Not language. Just a sound shaped like my name.
I should be terrified. Maybe I am.
But there’s something else too — something I don’t know how to admit without sounding unhinged:
It feels familiar.
Like something I lost a long time ago is trying to find its way home.
You mentioned Elias.
You never mention him unless something in you is rattled.
I don’t know what he said, or what he saw in your face, but I felt the echo of it in your magic. That warmth you pretend isn’t there. That softness you bury under precision and storm‑cloud composure.
Clem… you don’t have to tell me. You don’t have to name it. But I felt it.
And it steadied me in a way I didn’t expect.
Tonight, When the moon rises, I’ll sit beside the wardrobe with your letter in my hands and let your magic anchor me. I won’t open it. I won’t touch it. I’ll just listen.
But I won’t open it. Not yet. Not without you woven through the ink.
Chaos and storm. Comet and anchor.
Yours in trembling curiosity, stubborn courage, and whatever this is becoming— Marigold